


But I Am Living Still

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Gothic Mystery, M/M, Magical Realism, Original Mythology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2020-09-06 10:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20289883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: In the dead of summer, a man by the name of Karkat Vantas meets someone at the bar. He's charming, attractive, and wise. But, as it stands, things in the suburban outskirts of Skaia City are very rarely as they seem. Beneath shining towers of glass and steel lurk forces—both good and evil—whose origins were once known, but have long since been forgotten.When the world you know crumbles, what is left?





	1. The Highwayman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a particular Karkat Vantas meets an incredibly strange man at a bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm jumping on the southern gothic remix boat. this is kind of based on various mythologies with a mix of dishonored and Homestuck canon / [song link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aFkcAH-m9W0)

**Day 001:** In the middle of August, the air is sticky and hot. It’s the sort of weather that clings to the body, soaking through muscle and straight to the bone. Nature doesn’t care that the sun has set, nor that this very same potent combination of wet and unbearably warm weather has plagued the city for almost three weeks, nonstop. The temperature is high, and so are the tempers of the city-dwellers. Shouting matches break out at the slightest of provocation. Fights are cropping up everywhere. The only respite is inside, in the cool air of an air conditioner. And that is where a certain man, by the name of Karkat Vantas, finds himself.

Now, Karkat Vantas is, in every way, the average man. He works a nine-to-five office job, toiling away at a desk, like a loyal employee, day in and day out. His skin is a deep brown, and his constantly mussed black hair has a natural, slight curl at the ends. He stands at a height of just a few inches above five feet, and his grey eyes have a piercing quality to them. When he speaks, people listen; when he’s silent, he blends into the crowd.

He sits in the middle of Doland’s, a dive bar, beside the floor-to-ceiling window. He watches the few visible stars, as this place is closer to the edge of the suburbs than the center of the city. From time to time, he looks away, eyeing the man on the makeshift stage.

He’s tall, pale, and has an air of forced casualness about him. He walks with a heavy limp, favoring the left side, and his eyes are hidden behind mirrored black sunglasses. When he speaks, his voice is marked by a pronounced southern drawl. And, after some time, he takes out a guitar. He tunes it, then turns on the microphone in front of him. He plays a few notes, pauses, and looks around. He seems to wait for some sort of acknowledgement, but none comes. In fact, to Karkat’s surprise, in the dimly lit room, it seems he’s the only one who notices the man.

He keeps his head down, reacting only with subtle nods or a small smile. The music is pleasant, though quiet, and the stranger rarely speaks. His songs are old, perhaps from the 80’s. Every now and then, he stops. He laughs. His eyes meet Karkat’s.

Every now and then, at the edge of his right pants leg, there’s a flash of silver, the unmistakable shine of metal. After two hours, the man takes his leave. He disappears through the door at the back of the stage.

Seconds later, drawn by the ringing of the bell above the front door, Karkat finds himself staring at the exact same individual. His right arm is occupied by a bright red crutch, and his lopsided gait oozes an implacable sense of pride. When he sits at the bar, Karkat’s suspicions are confirmed. His right ankle is made of jointed metal. When he raises his arm, to get the bartender’s attention, he smiles, revealing that he’s missing his left canine. For himself, he orders a bottle of hard apple cider. He leans over, closer to Karkat, before offering a lopsided grin, one that highlights a deep scar, which horizontally spans the breadth of his face. “What ‘bout you, sir? What're you in the mood for?”

Karkat shakes his head. “I'm waiting for someone,” he admits. In truth, this someone—a complete unknown, who was supposed to be here over three hours ago—is little more than another useless dating app match.

“Oh. Well, I'll get‘cha a beer while you wait, huh? ‘Less there's something you like more.”

“Not really.” Karkat has never been a huge fan of alcohol. There are very few straight beverages he actually enjoys; beer, he simply tolerates.

“Great.” When the bartender returns, the stranger places the order. He extends a hand, and speaks, his voice clear and true. “Name's Dave. I do music here from time to time. Across the years, I guess you could say.” It's a strange comment, considering that he doesn't look a day over twenty-five, and that's on the higher end of Karkat's estimates. He doesn't stop, though. “What ‘bout you?” He catches his bottle as it slides across the counter and knocks back, taking several hearty gulps before he continues, “I mean, you ain't obligated to tell me.”

“I'm Karkat Vantas.” It's a reply that's at once skeptical and intrigued. “Thanks for the drink. I guess you're not as much of a stuck up tool as you look.”

Dave snickers. It's a low, gravelly sound. “I'll take that as a compliment.” He winces and presses his hand against his right thigh. “Who're you waitin’ for, by the way? Seems an awful lot to me like you've been stood the fuck up.”

“I probably have been. Just my luck. The world looks down upon me, shakes its head, and says, ‘Yes, this useless bastard must suffer more. Fuck him.’” Without really thinking about it, Karkat's finger traces little circles on the countertop. His other hand combs through his hair. “Why does it matter to you? Not to be a presumptuous bastard, but that's exactly what I fucking am. You don't seem to me like the sort of guy who really needs to hit on losers like me at shitty suburban bars to get a hook up.”

From Dave, there's a small shrug. He moves his hand forward, taking hold of his crutch, stowed beneath the counter, before planting it firmly against the ground. He heaves himself up, onto his feet, before bothering to reply. “Hey, I'm just trying to get to know ya’, don't need to go and take offense at it. I mean, if you ain't interested, I'll just hobble back home. Cry my heart out in my empty ol’ apartment. Woe is me, right? I'll mourn in the style of a tuberculosis-ridden Victorian maiden, clutching a garland of F-tier pearls to her chest.” 

Karkat blinks. His eyes narrow. He's perfectly split between unfathomable confusion and outright bemusement. “I don't understand a word that just so inelegantly spewed from your gaping maw.”

“Well, now, that sure seems to me like a _you _problem.” Dave moves around, to the freshly vacated seat on the opposite side of Karkat. His walk forms a strange beat. The soft plod of the sole of a red Converse shoe is followed by a rapid-fire succession—first, the tap of a crutch, then the heavy thud of false leg. There's grace in his motions, a sort of naturalness that suggests this isn't a recent injury. “_Are _you interested?”

“I mean,” Karkat stammers. His eyes trace Dave's strong jawline. “Yes. God. Fuck. Fuck! I'm interested, I guess. I'm not sure what, exactly, in the name of whatever abstract conception of the afterlife or lack thereof that you might have, I'm interested _in_...”

“But you're interested?”

“Sure.”

There's a pause, during which time, itself, seems to slow. _Perhaps,_ Karkat thinks, _It's only my nerves._ And, when Dave speaks, the moment is broken. “Well, then, why don't we get to know one another?” He takes a scrap of paper from his pocket, scribbles an address onto it, and gingerly places it before Karkat. “Meet me. It's a goddamned Starbucks, so don't worry your pretty little face over me bein’ a maybe serial killer.” When he turns his head, the light catches his sunglasses in just the right way, somehow managing to pierce the inky black veil, revealing that his right eye is clouded over. “Meet me whenever it works with you. I don't really do much, just hang out around town, y 'know?”

“Wouldn't you want me to text you? Tell you at least what day?”

“I'll be there. Don't sweat it, don't fret it.” Another smile, one that somehow manages to dispel any doubts Karkat may have. “Time don't really matter to me. Just the place.” Without another word, and quite abruptly, Dave rises. He turns, bottle in hand, and departs, calling behind him as he leaves, “I'll see you whenever.”

When the man is gone, Karkat looks at the page before him. As promised, the address for a nearby Starbucks is scribbled out on it, in glaring red ink. He pockets it and looks up just in time to meet the gaze of the bartender. Out of a need for some sort of human connection, he tries to strike up a conversation. “That was a nice performance tonight.”

The hairs of the bartender's thick mustache seem to bristle, blown by an unknown breeze. His brows furrow. “Pal, I don't know what you're talking about. There isn't a performance scheduled until tomorrow.” He shakes his head, muttering to himself about how he should stop serving alcohol so freely to people, before tending to a recent arrival at the bar.

* * *

**Day 002:** Karkat shares a vaguely renovated rowhouse with his childhood friend, Kanaya. In the heat of the summer, it's always stuffy, oppressive, even, and even the open windows grant little reprieve. The two occupants often spend their time on the porch, watching people pass by and talking between themselves.

Kanaya is a tall, slender woman. Her skin is even darker than that of her roommate, and her wide nose only accents the elegance of her oval face. Right now, with her mid-length hair pulled back, into a large puff, she fans herself off with one of the many spam magazines that so regularly arrive in the mailbox. Sweat beads at her brow. “I do hope that the weathermen are right about the upcoming cold front. This weather is simply horrid.”

“The world is just going to warm up until humans are wiped out,” shrugs Karkat. “Climate change is Nature's way of telling us that she thinks we're piddling little ingrates.”

“Always the optimist, dear Karkat,” tuts Kanaya. “How was the bar last night? Was there a decent crowd?”

“Well, I got stood up, but I met someone else. I don't fucking know if you know him, but you seem to know everyone. Dave? I know that's the most generic goddamned name on the planet, but that's all he told me. Blond, tall, sort of like you, one leg?”

“He is a regular at the homeless shelter I often volunteer at. Most people say he's a worthless drunk. I am surprised he managed to, as Rose might say, sweep you off your feet.” When she speaks the name of her girlfriend, Kanaya's eyes burn with a passionate light; the edges of her lips twitch upwards. “I could not really give my own opinion of him. He is a nice man, overall, and I have not once heard him say a rude thing to another person there.”

“Oh.” Karkat falls silent. “So, he's homeless?”

“I don't know,” Kanaya admits. “I suppose he is, or that he lives somewhere quite strange. I always assumed he simply had a bad leg, but it's a prosthetic?”

By now, with the heat starting to get to him, Karkat forgoes pouring out more lemonade. Instead, he guzzles directly from the pitcher, wiping his mouth on his shirt when he's done. “That's what it seemed like to me, at fucking least. Most people don't just have natural metal legs.”

“Hm. Point taken.” Despite her lack of outward reaction, the slight relaxing of Kanaya's posture hints at her amusement. “Whatever the case may be, his file states that he lost it in a hunting accident. Don't ask me what that might mean.”

“Well, shit, Kanaya, if you don't know, I sure as fuck wouldn't,” scoffs Karkat. “I mean... He seems nice enough. He's not the usual trash I get off of the dating app, and he actually puts up an effort to at least appear to be vaguely interested in me, so I'll take that as a sign. He told me to meet him at Starbucks, but he didn't exactly specify any date or time.”

“An incredibly strange man, it seems,” muses Kanaya.

“Hey, but he's cute.” Karkat smirks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has no update schedule at all but I do have a plot charged out and an idea for where this is going. We’ve got some goddamned mystery shit here. Feel free to leave any theories in the comments ✌🏽


	2. Music of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Karkat meets Dave, but a bit more in depth, this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im posting this from mobile so no song link ATM but here’s the chapter. Yeehaw.

**Day 004: **The Starbucks is packed, wth a line that somehow stretches twelve people beyond the door. The inside is noisy and chaotic, and most of the tables are covered in a strange, sticky residue. It lives up to its subpar reviews, noting it as one of the most overcrowded and understaffed locations in the city. And, yet, in the midst of all this, Dave Strider sits at a perfectly clean table. He wears a carefully pressed white button-up, with a black silk bow tie around his neck. He greets Karkat with a wave, like an old friend, and offers him a smile that offsets the calamity of what’s happening around him.

“I got us something to drink,” he announces, gesturing to two cups of iced coffee. How Dave knew when Karkat would arrive is a mystery, but it’s one that isn’t to be solved now. “Take a load off and stay a while, why don’t you? The world’ll keep turnin’ if you do.”

Karkat obliges. He sets down the book he’s been reading and settles into the uncomfortable metal chair. He drinks eagerly from his cup, quenching a thirst that’s plagued him since he stepped outside this morning. Then, he looks at Dave.

The man is wearing shorts today, revealing his leg. The shin of his prosthetic is decorated with a painting of an array of gears and clock motifs. When he moves, the knee stays locked in place. “It’s cool lookin’, right?” he says, perhaps having noticed Karkat’s interest. “Painted it myself.”

“Looks neat,” admits Karkat. “Is it the same as the one you had yesterday?”

Dave laughs. “Observant bastard, aren't you?” The gravelly tone of his voice blends with the rumbling whirring of the overhead fans. “Nope. Different one. Manual release knee.” As if to demonstrate, he presses down on a button on the side of his knee. He presses against the floor, and several mechanical clicks echo against hollow metal as he stretches the leg out. Once it's straight, he releases the button, only to repeat the same process in reverse a few moments later. “The shin is just a slip-on casing sort of deal. Take the foot off and slide it on. Not much real work, and, like I've said, time don't really matter much to me.”

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck do you mean by that?”

“Just what I've said.” A sly grin spreads across Dave's face. “I've got all the time in the world, pal.” He yawns, then folds his arms atop the table. “So, what do you do for living?”

“I'm an office monkey. I press buttons and do menial labor at a desk all day. Nine to five, every day. Thrilling.” To hammer home his point, Karkat tacks on sarcastic jazz hands. “What about you?”

Now, there's a pause. It stretches for several seconds, during which Karkat swears he can see the edges of Dave's person pulsing with a slight red glow. When he speaks, the strange phenomenon disappears. “I don't do much. Not many places're willin’ to hire me, anywho, y'know? One leg, bad eye? Yeah. Nah. I walk in, and everyone points and goes, ‘Oh, shit, man! That's a real life cer-tee-fied pirate right there! What a weirdo. Missing, like, one fifth of his fleshy bein’, let's just stare real hard-like at him, see if he'll wobble away.’ I'm pretty chill with it. Have a side gig as a bodyguard.”

“A bodyguard?” Karkat arches his brows. Try as he might, the suspicion oozes from his voice, like a noxious cloud. “You!?”

There's a brief moment of realization—a flash of surprise on an otherwise stoic face. Dave shakes his head. “It's complicated.” He changes the course of the discussion without warning. “You from ‘round here?”

“No. I emigrated from India when I was three, and my parents settled into this podunk little slice of American hell.” A snort of somewhat bitter laughter escapes Karkat. To be honest, he's never liked where he's spent most of his life. He despises the city, and the suburbs tend to be stuffed to bursting with close-minded middle class families. It's the typical southern place, he supposes. “I mean... If _you_ like it here, I won't judge. I hate the ever-loving shit out of it. Maybe that's just me.”

“I travel a lot, and I can comfortably say this ain't the best place on the planet.” From Dave, there's a reassuring smile. “You're interested in Skaian mythology?” he asks, nodding to the large book at the far edge of the table. “Neat stuff. Most books these days don't really touch on some of the nastier shit, though.” He leans back and takes up his crutch, slipping his arm through the ring at its top. When he gestures with his hands, the rubber tip of the support bounces dully against the tile floor. “Historian folk like to really smooth out shit, right? Lots of rough edges in Skaian society. But, hey, who's to say I'm right? I'm just some hog-waller country boy from Nowhere Very Important, southern U. S. of A., right?” The snicker at the end of his statement is strangely bitter.

Karkat, not knowing what to say in reply, stays silent.

Dave, in turn, as if to simply fill the void of silence, continues to speak. “I'm just spouting some not really dope shit. Ignore it.” A huff of exertion escapes him as he rises to his feet, releasing the mechanism for his knee as he does. “Line's died down some, and my stomach's rumblin’ mightier than Pooh Bear's, so I'm gonna’ wrangle me up some wild bagels. Want anything?” He shifts his weight, visibly wincing when he places too much on his right leg. His balance falters, and he catches himself on the edge of the table, a hitched breath releasing itself, ragged, from his throat. “Ah. Fuck. Sorry.”

“You're fine.” Now, it's Karkat's turn to smile reassuringly. “I'll take a croissant. I mean, that's assuming this chewed-gum-riddled blight of overpriced coffeeshop has some.”

When Dave laughs, the sound seems to hang in the air. Its specter works its way into Karkat's chest, coiling around his heart. “Damn. I'll see what they got. Can't promise much of anything.” He turns and makes his way to the line. When he walks, his right foot tends to scrape against the floor as he swings it forward. It's a stiff, awkward, and visibly uncomfortable gait. And, though he knows Dave would likely neither want nor appreciate it, Karkat finds a sense of pity settling in the pit of his stomach.

To distract himself, Karkat takes out his book. He manages to get through about three pages before being interrupted by the resonant clanking of a clay plate being placed before him.

Across the table, caught in a fight between a malfunctioning leg and the forces of gravity, Dave wobbles against his crutch. His speech, however, belays none of his current predicament; it's as calm as ever, as smooth as it always has been. “Got you the last two croissants. Picked myself up a few bagels. Probably takin’ a few home. I—”

On instinct, Karkat offers his help. While Dave has at least a foot on him in the height department, he still manages to support the man's weight.

“—Oh. Uh. Thanks.” Finally, there's a loud pop. The knee gives, and Dave settles into his seat. This time, he doesn't remove his arm from the crutch. “Storm's coming. Know how I know? Leg's aching like hell, and I know a guy who's got a real good grasp on the weather, so to speak. I'd give it about six hours. Get yourself inside while you can, it'll be a downpour.” As he speaks, Dave rubs against his right thigh. “How old're you, by the way?”

“Twenty-three.”

Dave nods. “Cool. Cool. I guess you could say I'm somewhere ‘round twenty-one, twenty-two.” He shrugs dramatically, brows arching high above the impenetrable wall of his shades. “Who fuckin’ knows, dude? Time's a finicky bitch, and she ain't my mistress, and I'm just her indentured servant. Don't make much sense to me, y'know?” He turns his head, offering Karkat a view of his clouded over eye. Beneath a film of white, the muted blue pupil is misshapen. Working purely on an assumption, albeit one he firmly believes to be fairly solid, it seems that it's likely useless. When his head turns again, it goes back behind the veil of his shades. “What about you? What else do you do besides office work?”

Karkat shrugs. Honestly, with his job, he doesn’t have an excessive amount of free time. It isn’t as if he’s working nonstop, but his hobby pool has shrunk considerably with little more than six hours of free time per day. (Add to that his duties as an adult, including keeping his apartment looking decent and making sure his dirtied dishes don’t turn to festering piles of mold and bacteria, and it’s a bit less than that.) After some time, he shrugs. “I do some art, not quite on the top tier level that you fucking obviously are, and I like to cook.”

“You cook?” Dave cocks his head to the side. “I bet it’s de-fuckin’-licious. I’ll have to try some soon, right?”

At this, Karkat finds himself smiling. “Yeah. That sounds nice.”

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Karkat has a vision. The same man, strange and pale, his leg missing just over a foot above his knee, sitting on a hot stone street. Sand blows across windswept desert, through time, itself, as the man speaks, in that strangely accented voice. He introduces himself. He is Dave Strider, a wandering merchant turned beggar, an outcast. He smiles.

Karkat shakes his head. He’s let his imagination run wild, it seems. Still, he can’t shake that gnawing feeling in his stomach. To sate it, he asks, “Have we met before?”

“Yes.” Dave’s answer is swift and detached, as are the words that follow. Whereas there has been an amicable warmth to his voice, it is now cold and dispassionate. “I’ve met you many times, not like you’d remember them. Let’s stay out of that for now. It’s too soon for that bullshit. Not here, and sure as hell not now.” Quite suddenly, he stands. “It seems our time here has run out. I have shit to do, places to see, you feel?” A small smirk dances at the edges of his lips, little more than subtle twitches of his expression. “Meet me again some time.” He scribbles another address onto a spare napkin, the hands it to Karkat. “If you want, of course.”

Despite the fact that he’s thoroughly confused, and feels as if he’s learned nothing about this man during their meeting, Karkat agrees. He takes the note and, once Dave is out of view, he looks up the location. It’s a Waffle House.

In the back of his mind, he wonders if this relationship will be some sort of extended, twisted scavenger hunt for information, spanning multiple chain restaurants.


	3. The Party’s Over Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the protagonist receives the smallest of hints that things might not be exactly as they seem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I basically wrote this entire chapter on mobile so if there are any wonky typos or autocorrects please let me know.

**Day 010:** “You realize you cannot just continue to carouse about, handing out information as if it’s confetti at a parade, do you not?” Across the beaten up wooden table, looking directly at Dave, is Rose. She speaks with conviction, her lightly tanned face set in the perfect image of judgement. “And don’t think that I don’t know what you’re doing. I am, of course, keeping a heavy thumb on my charge—”

“You’re dating her, Rose,” Dave points out. “You’re dating her. That’s different from keepin’ tabs, in my damn opinion.” He smirks.

“And is that to imply that it is impossible for me to perform both tasks adequately at the same time?” The swiftness of Rose’s reply, the sheer whiplash of it, speaks to a great deal of practice in the art of clapbackery. “Listen, David,” she says, crossing one leg over the other, “I am simply cautioning you against meddling too deeply in the affairs of mortals. We are both aware that wanton interference will result in mass chaos.”

With a cultivated air of pure disregard, Dave shrugs. He laughs. It’s the sort of chortle one would expect from a haughty, know-it-all twenty-something; in a sense, it fits him. “Yeah. Whatever.” He brushes his hands off on his jeans and rises to his feet, taking up his crutch as he departs. “I’ve got a prophecy to watch over, anyhow.”

Its clear that Rose wants to say more, but she keeps her mouth firmly shut. Instead, she opts for a simmering glower.

“Does your phone even fucking work!?” Karkat huffs. He slams his own cellular device against the plastic-coated yellow table. “I’ve texted you so many times that I’m sure only whatever benevolent sky-dwelling deity you might believe in would have a tenuous grasp on the writhing serpent that is the exact number. Whatever. I guess you’re here now, right?” The longer he speaks, and the more steam he lets off, the softer the man’s tone becomes. By the end of his miniature tirade, he simply slips into the Waffle House booth, across from Dave, and begins tapping his fingers against the laminated menu. “So, what’s up?”

“That’s my line,” Dave points out. “Not much shit’s happening in my lane. We’re coasting by on pure mundaneness, living in the lap of aimless, shuffling up and dealing out nothing but a total lack of any clout. You feel?” The rhymes and rhythm slide off his tongue with ease, his voice seeming more natural than it often does. That slight robotic undertone of his has disappeared, at least until he decides to stop rhyming. “What ‘bout you, dude?”

“I’m working the same job, pushing the same fucking buttons every goddamned day. I guess I could just summarize it as, ‘Wow, same!’” Even as he says this, part of Karkat wonders if Dave’s life is really as normal as he makes it out to be. “Any reason you’re just picking random dates with me at shitty D-class restaurants?”

“What, would you prefer a B-class dive bar next time?” Pale blond brows rise above twin veils of reflective black. Dave’s voice belays no emotion. “I can swing that. Let me pencil you in for Griddy’s Donuts and Beer. That’ll be our next stop, eh?”

“That’s not what I was going for, you obtuse rat bastard, but I can already see we’ve gone too far down this winding path of idiosyncratic stupidity, now. Not even the GPS can salvage this trip.” As he speaks, Karkat can feel the edges of his lips tugging into a smirk. He wonders if it’s something about the company, an unspoken, easy energy that he’s somehow picking up from Dave.

The other man provides no answers, only his usual brand of strange. “Anything interestin’ in that mythology book you’re noodlin’ through?”

“Oh! That?” Truthfully, Karkat is surprised Dave even remembered what he had been reading. Most people wouldn’t have given it second thought. Then again, thinking back, he recalls a few offhanded comments from the blond, which seem indicative of a personal interest in the topic on his end. He files the information away, keeping it safe for later, as he continues the discussion. “Not really.”

There’s a pause. Drinks are ordered, then delivered.

Dave speaks up. He swirls his soda around in the glass, watching it closely, as if trying to grade a glass of wine. “There was a cult, way back, longer back that most of them books feel like goin’. Called the Cult of SBURB. Its followers were real fanatics ‘bout their shit. They dabbled in ritual sacrifice. ‘Course, they drew that shit out real long-like, y’know? Tortured the poor idiots before they killed ‘em.” A soft sound, a ‘hah’, escapes Dave. He shakes his head. “Oh. Fuck. Don’t mind me. Let’s chat it up about something cheerier. What’re you gettin’?”

“Just the standard waffle. Nothing fancy.”

“Man after my own heart, huh?”

Another stretch of silence. It’s comfortable and warm. There’s no pressing need to break it, nor is there an anxious desire to uphold it. When it fades, at Dave’s command, it does so naturally. “You have a ride home? It’ll be rainin’ soon.”

“I just walked here,” Karkat admits. He doesn’t live far from the Waffle House. But, if Dave is right, six blocks is a lot to walk in the rain. “Your leg is bothering you?”

“Sure.” Yet another cagey answer to a straightforward question, but Karkat doesn’t bother pressing for more. Instead, he allows Dave to continue, “I’ll walk you back. I know a shortcut.”

Karkat nods. He’s lived in Skaia his entire life, and he’s never before considered the possibility of a shorter route home from Waffle House. That’s not to say he’s a regular here, but he comes often enough to know the shortest route. Nonetheless, there’s something so genuine in Dave’s offer that he feels compelled to accept it.

When the meeting draws to a close, and the bill is paid, Dave leads Karkat outside. True to his word, the sky is overcast. The dark grey clouds hang, low and rotund, against the sky. The morning sun, which had been so bright and blistering only a scant few hours ago, has given way to a wet, sticky humidity. It’s the surefire precedent to a storm, and the stiff breeze does little to help.

“You’re not all squeamish ‘bout alleyways, are you?” Dave stays in stride with Karkat, his crutch tapping a steady beat as he walks. “It’s the fastest way back to your apartment.”

“And how would you know where I live?” counters Karkat. There’s a part of him that feels he should be suspicious of this development, but he finds he simply can’t be. Not with Dave, and not when faced with the man’s odd brand of frankness and honesty.

True to form, Dave offers a nervous hum. “It’s public info on your Facebook, dude.”

”Fair enough.” There’s a moment of pause, during which Karkat swears he sees the painted gears on Dave’s false leg moving. He dismisses it as mere fatigue.

“The city’s getting pissy, isn’t it?” Dave inquires, seemingly out of the blue. “It’s been too hot for too long. People don’t like that much.”

“Yeah,” nods Karkat. “You’re right. I—”

Dave interrupts. “We’re here.” He grins.

Somehow, against all odds, and after what seemed like only a few minutes, the pair has arrived before Karkat’s apartment building. It’s a surreal moment, tempered only by a distant rumble of thunder and the soft patter of early, scattered raindrops.

“Fuck,” mumbles Karkat, “Yeah. We have.”

Dave, after pulling his arm out of the security loop of the crutch, offers his hand, a gesture that’s reciprocated as he speaks, “Thanks for the outing, dude. We’ll catch up again soon.”

“Yeah.” The answer comes slowly, dripping with the perplexed state of its speaker, “That sounds nice...”

And, with an abrupt turn and a casual wave, Dave begins his journey back to wherever he’d come from. “I’ll see you around!”

Karkat takes a moment to consider what he could say in reply, wondering if he should invite the strange man to spend the night with him, but it’s a moment too long. By the time he opens his mouth to speak, Dave is gone, a literal flash of red against a rapidly greying world.


	4. While my Guitar Gently Weeps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lesson on why reading incantations from books might not always be a fine idea.

DAY 012: Deep in the dense forest of Wayward Park, the largest plot of pure greenery in the city, it’s always a bit chilly. People have tried and failed to understand the exact reason for this since settlers began planting roots here. It doesn’t really matter to Karkat.

No, what he’s here for is something different. Led by his book, he stands before something he’s always been aware of, but never visited. It’s known succinctly as The Slab. It’s a massive stone base, its top marred by interwoven tangles of weeds, with a massive eight-toothed gear etched into its surface. It’s been here for as long as anyone can remember, but its meaning and purpose has long since been forgotten. It’s an enigma, in every sense of the word. And, yet, according to the book Karkat has been reading, it was allegedly the epicenter of the local branch of the Cult of Skaia.

Sitting atop a mossy stone, book in hand, Karkat flips through the pages. He opens his mouth, preparing to recite an ancient summoning rite. It’s not that he necessarily wants to summon anything, and, truthfully, he doesn’t even believe it will happen. He’s just curious. He breathes in, and, before the first sound can leave him, he’s interrupted.

Leaves crack and crunch behind him. When he turns, he finds himself staring at a familiar face. Dave Strider stands before him, hands folded atop his crutch. “I wouldn’t try that if I were you. Those fuckers didn’t know what they were doing then, and the translators ain’t got a clue what they’re doing, now.” The man tuts. He shakes his head.

“And how the fuck would you know that?” asks Karkat, incredulous of the accusation. “These are peer reviewed publications, you twiddling dumbbell.”

“Yeah?” There’s a swift movement. One brow shoots above the rim of his shades. “Well, then, none of them know what’s happening. Don’t fret too much about it.” When he steps forward, a stiff wind blows through the forest. It whips up the leaves, billowing them about the man’s ankles. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Nice day to be out here, though.”

Karkat rolls his eyes. He looks back to his book, warily glancing at the passage he’d just prepared to read.

“From the great and unknowable depths of that which mere mortal shall never understand, I call upon thee, Knight of Time.”

The words are spoken softly, under his breath. It’s pure happenstance; he’s reading aloud, not really giving thought to whether or not his words mean anything. And, the minute he’s done, Karkat finds himself being buffeted by a sudden, powerful gust of wind. Tree limbs bend and groan beneath nature’s wrath until, quite abruptly, everything falls silent.

From his spot, Dave groans. The dry foliage beneath his feet crackles. “Damn, man, that wasn’t very cash money of you.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

“Nothing.” The response is swift and short. This is a correction, something to cover up a statement that shouldn’t have been said. Now, Karkat hasn’t a clue what statement, exactly, Dave is trying to redact, but he is certain that something he shouldn’t have heard has been spoken.

Nonetheless, Karkat remains silent.

Dave pushes ahead, as Karkat has come to expect. “I wouldn’t go ‘round chanting out any other shit in that book. Might land you in a world of hurt. Think ‘bout it as opening the wrong door in a video game. Some big Havel the fuckin’ Rock bastard comes out and lays absolute waste to your punk-ass level negative three reroll, and you’ll be starting right back at the beginning of your reincarnation cycle. Then we’ll all be screwed.”

Karkat sighs. He punches the bridge of his nose with one hand, and uses the other to mark his page and set aside his book. “Nothing you ever say makes any sense, you obtuse motherfucker.”

“Great!” Oddly enough, Dave flashes a wide grin. It’s brief, but it’s bright. There’s a brilliance to the expression, which somehow works its way into the deepest reaches of Karkat’s mind. It nestles itself comfortably within his memory, standing out as something remarkable on an otherwise drab day. “It’s not supposed to, pal. Not now, anyhow.”

There’s a pause. The wind fills the silence. It’s softer, now, as it whistles through the autumnal brush. It rakes across the land like fingers through a lover’s hair; intimate, slow, and calming.

It feels almost irreverent to break the peace, but Karkat simply cant stand to wallow in his own lack of social graces for another second. “Do you even have a fucking job, you discolored fecal stain?”

“Yeah?” It’s a question, not an answer, but the response follows shortly thereafter. “I work as an occasional custodian up at the Skaia Historical Society. They pay me chump change to scrub their coffee diarrhea off the floor.” A shrug. A low hum. Dave taps his good foot. There’s a frenetic energy in the way he moves, as if he’s watching for danger. “Not the same as a fancy, honky-tonk office think tank, but I probably wouldn’t fit in great with that crowd. No big loss.”

“Really?” Another query, this one from Karkat.

Dave answers firmly, “Really. Now, why don’t we get out of here? I’ll take you wherever you want, but this clearing’s just dripping with bad vibes, and I don’t feel too keen ‘bout sticking around.”

“Bad vibes?” There’s laughter in his voice when he speaks. Karkat senses the seriousness of Dave’s statement, but he can’t quite process it. It’s so out of line with everything he’s learned about the man thus far that it doesn’t compute. “Did you hit your head or something on the way out here?”

“You could say that,” Dave shrugs. He inches towards a nearby tree, upon which he leans his weight. “Seriously. I don’t like this place much. This isn’t some sort of fun park, dude. This is a legitimate torture chamber, and we’re the next dumbasses in line. Let’s scoot on out, okay?”

“If it makes you feel more comfortable.” Karkat brushes himself off as he rises to his feet. After tucking his book back into his messenger bag, he joins Dave beneath the tree. “You’re a weird dude. You know that, right?”

“I’m aware.” A ghost of a smirk flickers across Dave’s features.

DAY 014: Late at night, in the throes of a dream, a memory stirs in Karkat. It plays out, like a faded old film.

He finds himself sprawled out in a muddy trench. It hurts to breathe and, when he touches his hand to his chest, it comes away covered in blood. He feels himself dying; he knows this is how it ends. And, yet, just as he allows his eyes to slide closed, he’s greeted by an oddly familiar man.

“Hey, now, you ain’t gettin’ out of this mortal coil that easily.” His blond hair, coated with dirt and oil and grime, is so matted together that even the strong winds fail to move it. Behind tinted shades, red red are visible. He leans heavily against a rifle as he approaches, his right leg dragging through the mud. “Indian Army?” He asks, conversationally, “How old are you, Karkat?”

“How do you know my name?” is the reply.

“Don’t worry about that. Name’s Dave. American army. I—” he stammers, groans, and shoves Karkat’s hand away from the wound. “Stop touching it, dammit, let me help.”

“Shit. My mom’s going to be worried sick about me,” Karkat mumbles.

“You’ll be fine.” Dave works swiftly. His touch is gentle, and his voice draws enough attention away from the unending hellfire and chaos of war to keep Karkat from simply slipping into eternal sleep. “So, How old’re you?”

“Nineteen.”

“Young.” Dave tuts. “It didn’t hit anything vital. You’ll be fine. Hey. HEY!”

“Feels like it did.”

“Getting shot isn’t supposed to feel great,” Dave laughs. “Shit. Here comes your unit.” He reaches out and pats Karkat on the shoulder. From his pocket, he takes a piece of paper, onto which is scrawled symbols that Karkat doesn’t quite understand. The rain has made the ink run, and the paper seems to fall apart in his hand.

Nonetheless, the stranger—this Dave character—is undeterred. He gathers his things, calling back as he departs, “I’ll see you later, Karkat! Hopefully under better conditions, huh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOOO I’M REAL LATE WITH THIS ONE SORRY


	5. Last Man Stands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which meddling with time comes with consequences, regardless of who might know of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [click here for a link to the song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZPdFjZX1s_Y), by dragonforce. as a bit of a warning, dave's section does have a bit of blood.

**DAY 017:** The next time the two men meet is on a dreary, overcast, and oppressively humid day. The soft, pattering drizzle of rain hasn’t changed the temperature; it remains in the mid-nineties. Shorts simply don’t seem short enough, and even sleeveless tops fail to keep their wearers from perspiring profusely. Somehow, the lack of sun only exacerbates the issue. It seems impossible for it to be any hotter, even without a burning orb of fire hanging visibly in the sky.

Karkat, on his way to work, has a thousand thoughts bouncing around in his head. They all clamor for attention, screaming at him to focus on them. His tasks for the upcoming week. The weather. The news. Perhaps it's these things that distract him, or maybe it's simply the nature of a Monday morning. Whatever the case may be, he steps off the curb a few seconds too soon, when the indicator still signals for pedestrians to remain on the sidewalk. He hears the screeching of car tires and braces for impact. When it comes, with a mighty thud and the honking of a car horn, he closes his eyes.

“Watch where you're going, dumbass. I don't get paid enough to save your ass every ten seconds, you know.” Dave's voice draws Karkat back to reality.

Opening his eyes, Karkat finds himself perfectly intact, albeit a bit bruised. Laying at his side, probably just having removed himself, is Dave.

And, true to form, the eccentric man keeps blabbering, stacking his sarcastic jabs into a tower of dry wit. “You never learned to look both ways? I mean, fuck, dude, that little blinking box has a red hand. You know what that means? It means to fuckin’ stop.” A pained huff escapes Dave as he presses against the ground. The metal of his false leg scrapes against the concrete, and the unpleasant sound seems to resonate in the thick, wet air. “_You're_ not invincible.”

By now, having risen to his feet, Karkat dusts himself off. He begins to gather his lunch, which has fallen from a now thoroughly dented metal box. “Oh! And you are?”

“No comment.” After a few more attempts, Dave gives up. He drops to the ground, doing little more than flopping onto his back.

The crowd continues to ebb around the two men, indifferent to their apparent chaos. Snippets of muttered comments sometimes drift past, but nothing more is done to aid them.

“God, what the fuck. Where did you even come from!?” Karkat counters, now realizing that, until the moment of impact, he hadn't seen any sign of the other man. “It's not like you're fooling anyone, and you sure as fuck aren't going to stealthily sneak up on any unsuspecting half-brained bastard.” With his lunch back in its place, attentions turn to Dave. Karkat offers his hand to him, and Dave accepts the gesture. The weight of the other man leveraging himself against Karkat causes him to stumble, nearly toppling the pair back to the ground. Yet, somehow, he finds his footing.

In the periphery of his vision, Karkat once again seems to see the gears on Dave's leg turn, yet neither man mentions it. Instead, Dave continues, quite matter-of-factly, “It's not your time to die, Vantas. Time's a fickle bitch, but sometimes you just have to go in and give it a good kick in the nuts. You understand? Nah. Probably not...” He plants his crutch—one that, if it had been nearby, Karkat certainly hadn't seen before—on the ground. After a few tentative false starts, he releases his grip and stands on his own. “It doesn't really matter _where_ I came from, because the real question should actually be _when_, but...” A shrug. A smirk. “Whatever. You're okay?”

“I have at least fifty questions about the shit you just said, but we’re going to ignore that for the time being. Yes, thanks to your graceless and unwelcome intervention, the wheels of fate have ground to a shrieking halt, and I’m perfectly intact. You, however, are dripping blood all over this nice sidewalk.”

“Hm?” Dave blinks. He shifts his weight, only to let forth a low growl of discomfort. “Fuck.” He rubs a hand along the thigh of his false leg. “Ow. That’s not real great.”

Realizing that he’ll be late to work no matter what happens, Karkat decides to stay and do his best to help. “Do you want me to call 911?”

“Thanks, but that’s a fuckin’ terrible idea.” Though no one has asked why, Dave still opens his wallet, flashing the empty identification card slot. “I technically and legally don’t exist. So, let’s keep it that way. It’s not a big deal, anyhow.”

“Well, fuck, I'm not a doctor,” shoots Karkat, his hands raised in faux surrender. “I'd get that checked, though. Maybe text me afterwards, so I know you didn't drop dead in some seedy Skaian alleyway. That'd be vaguely depressing, if only because it's hot as Satan's squirming nutsack, and that would mean _everyone _would get a nice whiff of your decaying body stench.”

“Well, gee, Vantas, it's nice to know you really care about me.” For just long enough to display that he's rolling his eyes, Dave lifts his shades. In doing so, he confirms one of Karkat's earlier observations: his right eye is visibly damaged, to the point that it seems useless. “Look, if it'll calm your damned tits, I'll go and get it checked. Okay? Now, go do whatever the fuck you people do these days to make money. Churn butter? Herd sheep? I haven't really kept a thumb on that sort of shit lately, so, —” he shrugs, “—Whatever.”

“Another dead Dave, it seems,” Rose comments, watching as Dave trails blood into their shared home. As she speaks, there's a loud whine, a sound that's a mix of rushing wind and roaring surf and the whistle of a train all at once. After a few seconds, the noise fades. “Come, now, let's see what sort of damage you've done. We might need to consult with Jade on this.”

Though reluctant, Dave complies with the command. He sits on a nearby bar stool, its surface already covered with towels, and removes his tattered jeans. He's keenly aware of Rose's prying gaze, but it isn't as if this is a strange occurrence; they're twins, after all. Both parties have seen the other in various states of undress, albeit more often than not in error, and time has worn the stigma of the bare body to little more than a mild inconvenience.

“You understand that you're only damaging yourself with your recklessness, correct?” Porcelain clacks together as Rose takes a sip of her aromatic green tea. “Go on, David, we both know the problem isn't that you're shy.”

“Fuck off, Rose,” quips Dave. His movements are rough and careless, applied with enough force to elicit grunts of discomfort. After a bit of fiddling, he removes his prosthetic leg, which he carelessly discards on the floor. The lining around what is left of his leg, now visible, is caked with dried blood. “Fuck.”

“Hm. You really did do, shall we say, a bit of whoopsie with this one. Should we call Jade?”

After a brief peek at the old wound, Dave nods. “It's reopened.”

“We're both aware that this is the punishment for meddling with fate and ending up with yet another body on your funerary pyre of mistakes, David.” With care and precision in direct opposition to her brother's actions, she sets aside her still-steaming beverage. She approaches the front door and opens it, revealing that, instead of the usual view of the street, there is now another home, this one stuffed to bursting with lovingly cared for plants. “Jade, Dave once again meddled where he shouldn't have, and we now have another redundant punishment for his foolhardy nature.”

From a curtain of vines emerges a woman, tall, tan, and with flowing black hair. Bright green eyes peer out from behind round glasses, and a wide grin is plastered on her face. “Nothing that I can't handle.” She cracks her knuckles and steps into the Strider-Lalonde household, closing the door behind her.

* * *

**DAY 019:** “So, let me get this straight,” Karkat mumbles into his wireless headset, his attentions divided between his discussion and his work on a batch of homemade banana nut bread. “You went to go and get whatever the fuck was spewing your literal lifeblood out of you checked out, and absolutely nothing was wrong.”

“Exactly!” Over the phone, Dave is more vocally emotive. There's a chipper pep to his voice, something that Karkat has never heard from the man in person. “Listen, don't worry about it. Everything's fine. You're the one we should be worrying about. You're feeling fine after being almost pancaked the fuck up by a car? Now _that's_ weird.”

“What's weird is the fact that you appeared out of fuck-all nowhere and shoved me out of the way, like some sort of self-important action protagonist.” With one hand, Karkat begins whisking some eggs; the other hand digs into a bag of pecans. “Fuck. Everything about you is as enigmatic as the most off-the-wall batshit conspiracy theory I could conceive. Who are you? Why don't you legally exist? How the fuck do you manage to constantly pop up in the most inconvenient places, like a goddamned annoying Disney janitor, clawing his way out of the subterranean depths?”

“Hm. Well, how many of those questions really matter to you?”

“All of them, you goddamned chucklebastard!”

“Great! None of them need to be answered at this time. Please call back after the commercial break.” A low chuckle underpins Dave's words.

Karkat, meanwhile, sputters out an attempt at a coherent reply, “You!? What!? Nothing? Really? I—” Before he can even begin to articulate his thoughts, he finds himself on the end of a dead line.

“OH GOD FUCKING DAMMIT!” Karkat slams his fist against the recently laid out dough, only to promptly withdraw it, having thoroughly bruised his knuckles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thanks for reading! if you wanna hit me up about this shit, leave a comment or find me on tumblr (godtiermeme), or one of these two discord servers: [click here for the homestuck writers discord](https://discord.gg/QtmzruB) / [click here for new alternia discord server](https://discord.gg/TUhuzt2). uwu


	6. Dignity of a Castle

DAY 021: “According to most historical accounts, most of the ancient Skaian cults were absolute batshit whackfucks, replete with their own fanciful deities.” Karkat eyes his current spot in his book, frowning as he continues to skim its contents. “Look, I’m not trying to outright bash ancient beliefs, but some of what they said is a bit far-fetched.”

Across the library table, with his hands folded across his chest, Dave shrugs. He shifts in his seat. “Hey, some of what they said might’ve been right. Ain’t like you’d know, Doctor Fusspot. What? You’re telling me you’ve consulted with the cosmos and they’ve phoned back, all, ‘Yeah. None of this is real.’”

Caught off-guard by this input, Karkat pauses. His lips press together, and he hums thoughtfully for a moment before replying, “Well, no, but there has to be some sort of fucking reason that this shit isn’t a dominant religion at this point. I mean, it doesn’t share anything in common with any of today’s modern faiths, and that’s pretty damned suspicious.”

“It dropped truths too damned big for its own good,” Dave tuts. He shakes his head.

Karkat, meanwhile, continues to act as if he’s absorbed in his book, sometimes throwing out random tidbits. “The main deities worshiped by adherents of the Skaian religion were, —” he throws out.

“Light, wind, and space,” Dave supplies.

“Small cults also worshiped—”

“Time and heart,” finishes Dave. He offers a facetious yawn. “Look, you gonna’ say anything new, or do I have to start the big ball of vaguely interestin’ shit rollin’ down discussion hill?”

There’s a brief moment of silence, during which the two men stare awkwardly at one another. Then, after a few seconds, Karkat finally speaks up. “How do you know so much about this?”

Dave, true to form, responds with a query of his own. “You ever get the feeling that you’ve been around before? Like, you’ve toodled on down this big, stupid street of life before, probably chuggin’ on down on some damned beer. Whatever alcoholic drink you’re downing don’t really matter, right? Just... you ever feel that way?” There’s no emotion on his face, and his words betray nothing more than their base value. “No? Hm. Maybe not. Let me rephrase this. Haven’t you felt, like, maybe when you’re takin’ a big, blow-out taco shit, that you know someone you just met?”

“Uh...” As per usual, Karkat isn’t sure exactly what he’s expected to say to this. He tries to think his words over, but ultimately realizes that trying to invest any sort of dedicated mindpower to figuring out what Dave means at any given time is a waste of his time. So, he lets it fly, “No, I don’t particularly think about other people when I shit. Maybe you do, you depraved bullshit idiot, but I don’t. I do get that feeling, though, but not on the toilet, as I let out a steaming pile of literal shit.”

“Mm. Fair. Fair.” Dave nods, as if what has been said is some sort of deep, unknowable truth. “Well, don’t you ever wonder why that is?”

“I don’t fucking know, dumbass, fuck it! Reincarnation? What’s with this line of interrogation? What sort of wacky goddamned philosophizing is all of this?” With a dulled thud, Karkat snaps his book shut. He looks to Dave, a mix of a glare and a perplexed gaze. “You talk in nothing but riddles made of layers and layers of impenetrable fuck-all, and then expect me to understand.”

“Well, think about it for a minute. I mean, not to sound self-important and all, but don’t I seem familiar to you?” He leans forward, and the wheelchair he’s propped up in squeaks. It’s a noise loud enough to pierce through the placid silence of the library; it draws stares. Dave doesn’t falter under the scrutiny, but Karkat does. “Come on, dude, I’ve been playin’ this goddamned game for centuries with you. Millenniums, even. It’s getting a little fuckin’ out of hand. You’ve got to remember somethin’.” His tone is hopeful, but his body language is tense.

And, as much as he wants to please the man across he table from him, Karkat has to answer honestly. “I’ve got no fucking clue what you’re babbling about, Strider. Care to spell it out, or are we just going to keep chasing our own tails in an endless ouroboros of dipshit?” When more movement from Dave causes even louder noises to Spring from his apparently underused chair, Karkat tactlessly adds to his commentary, “Are you trying to piss off the while library?”

“Sure, let me just regrow my goddamned leg to appease your fragile sense of self. Newsflash, dude, they’re staring at me, not you. If you haven’t noticed, I’m the guy with one leg, wearing sunglasses indoors.” He’s annoyed. That much is obvious. Dave’s posturing bleeds frustration—the way his shoulders are squared, the venom in his voice—then, after a deep breath, it switches, like a light turning off. When he continues, he’s slipped back into his usual brand of aloof calm. “Sorry. Ignore that. Uh...” he rubs the back of his neck. “Look, tell me about yourself. You have any family around here?”

“Left Home early and never looked back,” shrugs Karkat. “If you’re still feeling bad, seeing as you almost got hit by a car, then we don’t have to do this. I’m perfectly happy meeting you at whatever obscure, stupid time and place you might happen to pull out of your ass.”

“I’m fine,” counters Dave. He taps his fingers against the table. He turns his head to the side, seemingly trying to look at what’s in his blind spot. “Can’t quite read the time on the clock behind you, pal, mind tellin’ me what it says?”

Using his phone, instead, Karkat supplies the answer, “5:30. You sure you’re feeling alright?”

“Sure.” It’s an unconvincing answer, but words spill so quickly from Dave’s mouth that there’s little time to contradict them. “Weird question, but do you know of a gal by the name of Rose?”

“She's dating my best friend, I sure hope I know the name. I've never actually met her, but she seems nice enough. Why?”

From Dave, a shrug. He inches his chair back, wheeling over to join Karkat.

In spite of his keen realization that it's rude, Karkat finds his eyes drawn to the spot where Dave's leg should be. The leg of his jeans has been rolled up and tucked beneath the abrupt end of his limb, about a foot above the knee. To distract himself, he forces the conversation ahead, “Weird question for you, now, but is there any particular reason you don't have your leg on?”

A snort of nervous laughter escapes Dave. “Managed to hurt the stump, so it needs some downtime to heal. Probably a week or so.” By the time he's finished speaking, he's at Karkat's side. Pulling himself closer to the table, he pats the other man on the shoulder. It seems like an unconscious, habitual action; he doesn't comment on it.

And, yet, the moment contact is made, a vision stirs in the back of Karkat's mind.

He sees himself—or, at least, he believes that it's himself—at a different time.

_He's pressed flat, against cold asphalt, with a boot against his back and a gun to his head. Resignation flows through his veins, and he prepares himself for a death that doesn't come. Instead, the boot rises, an action immediately followed by the sounds of a struggle. A single gunshot is followed by hastily retreating footsteps._

_When he finally opens his eyes, they fall upon none other than Dave Strider. He haphazardly covers a bleeding wound in his side, and a small smile graces his face. “Huh. Probably a bad time to be introducin’ m’self, right?” As he speaks, the blood trickles to a stop. By the time he removes his hand and offers it out, the wound has visibly healed. “Dave Strider. Guess you could call me a guardian angel, but I'm just some random dumbass, passin’ on through, keepin’ some random douchebag from puttin’ a bullet in you.”_

With little fanfare, the vision ends. Karkat finds himself once again sitting in the library. “I know you,” he mumbles, not really thinking of his words. “Who are you?”

Perhaps it’s a trick, a strange glint of light against his shades, but, for the faintest of moments, Dave’s blind eye seems to glow. It’s a swift pulse of bright white, something that, in his confusion, Karkat dismisses as a stray reflection. Still, he persists, continuing, “Where do I know you from? And don’t give me any of your usual brand of obtuse bullshit, Strider.”

A smirk. A snicker. One pale hand runs through blond hair, while another rubs the side of what’s left of his leg. “I can’t tell you all at once. That’s just askin’ for bullshit. Don’t really feel keen on wiping up your exploded out brains off the floor at the moment. But you seem to be catching on. Congrats.”

The need for more information—an answer to the pining questions, which gnaw away at Karkat’s mind—is palpable. It’s a cloying, vicious knot in his stomach. A roaring, burning passion in his chest. Yet, he knows he won’t get anywhere. Not today. So, he breathes a deep sigh and cracks open his book.

The next hour or so is silent. A vague tension hangs in the air, broken only by brief and mumbled farewells.


	7. Akatsuki no Ito

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song by Wagakki Band. [Link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SMP5dmxzTJY).

**DAY 031:** “You know what's fucked up?” inquires Dave. He lounges on a leather sofa, one arm thrown over the back, with his foot propped up on the battered coffee table directly in front of him. He doesn't wait for an answer to his question; it's not _really_ a question. “We've been watching this universe fall the fuck apart for, what? Decades? Centuries? Millennia? A long fuckin’ time. We've been watchin’ this shit repeating over and over, like a broken VHS tape, but we haven't done a single fuckin’ thing ‘bout it. Not once!”

From her spot, before one of the many wall-to-wall oak bookshelves, Rose shrugs. Before she speaks, she removes an armful of books from the shelf, sets them aside, and dusts off the wood. “We're not actually supposed to meddle in the affairs of mortals, Dave. We all agreed upon this condition umpteen centuries ago. Our meddling has caused little more than a cavalcade of suffering. We're not meant to rule the world, we're simply to observe it. In fact, I'm amazed you're even still trying to fulfill this odd little fantasy of yours. The prophecy was never meant to be taken literally, if seriously at all in the first place. You're chasing ghosts.”

A beat of silence.

Dave shrugs. He rolls his shoulders. “Maybe,” he concedes, “But, if that's what it takes, I guess I'll just keep trailing spectral fuckers, huh?”

Rose tuts. “I can't stop you. You choose your own actions, but be forewarned that you'll also face your own consequences. Should you continue down this path, I refuse to intervene, regardless of what may come of it.”

A small smirk crosses Dave's face. “We both know that, if my ass is in legitimate danger, you'll be the first sucker to come running for me.”

“I will neither confirm nor deny this fact,” Rose answers stiffly.

The Golden Sturgeon, a dive bar, has been a fixture of downtown Skaia for as long as most residents of the city can remember. It stands in stark contrast to the rest of the city, with its towering skyscrapers and walls of reflective glass; a ramshackle little wooden structure in the midst of a bustling modern city. The air is always smoky, regardless of legal bans on smoking in public, and the humid air of the day carries the scent of greasy, grilling meat from the kitchen to the dining area. Being that it rests beneath a highway overpass, every stray eighteen wheeler seems to make the whole building rattle on its very foundation. It's a dump, in most senses of the word, and the food is subpar at best, but, somehow, it stands the test of time. In fact, it turns out that it's one of Dave's favorite places in the city, which explains why Karkat—who, under almost any other circumstances, would never consider setting foot into such a place—arrives here.

He enters around 5:30 in the afternoon, still clad in his work attire—a grey polo shirt, now soaked with sweat and clinging to his body, and carefully pressed black slacks. Immediately, he's greeted by a familiar face.

Dave offers a wave and a smile. For a reason Karkat isn't aware of, the man's sunglasses have been pushed up, so that they rest on top of his head. His crutch rests against the booth he's sitting in, its rubber arm loop just barely brushing against his hair. “I took the liberty of orderin' you a drink,” explains Dave. With a smooth, swift motion, he slides a glass of cider down the table. “I just assumed you'd like cider. A lot of people seem to.”

Karkat doesn't bother noting that he doesn't actually like cider. After the day he's had, he'll take anything. He catches the glass and chugs. When he's had his fill, he sits down in the wobbly wooden chair across from Dave. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” There's something in the way Dave smiles that's implacably familiar, like watching an old family movie. It jogs a memory, but one so faint that it never fully materializes. “Bad day at work?”

Karkat takes a moment to think before responding. He shrugs, slumping down into his seat as he answers, “Not really _bad_, but just... Uh... It was a fucking day.”

“Makes sense,” nods Dave. His brows furrow. “You look like you've got a question for me.”

“Yeah,” admits Karkat, thinking back to his dreams. “Why the fuck do you seem so goddamned familiar?”

Dave's smile grows. He steeples his fingers together and leans his weight forward, onto his elbows. “Well, now, I can't really answer that one for you, buddy. I'm not you. But, for the sake of bein' fair 'bout all this, elaborate.”

“I keep... God. I'm about to sound like the most desperate, insane bastard on the entire planet, but...” For some reason, Karkat can't make himself meet Dave's gaze, now. He looks down, at the scratch-covered table, as he explains, “I keep having these dreams, and they feel so fucking real. Like. They're so tangible that I swear I could look back, through old family photos, and see the things I've dreamed about. And, in every one of them, there's your enigmatic-as-fuck ass, there for seemingly no reason, but usually saving _my_ clueless rear from being blasted into infinity by some random force of nature, be it man-made or natural.”

Though the smile on his face has faded, there's an edge to Dave's voice, one that's indicative of excitement. His words come out faster, seeming to blend together to form a flowing tapestry of intrigue. “Really? Well, do you believe in reincarnation?”

“Do you?” Karkat shoots the question back to the sender. “You don't strike me as a spiritual person. And, hey, maybe I'm clueless, and you are, but—”

A snicker interrupts the statement. Dave raises his hands into the air, surrendering, as he retorts, “Shit, Vantas, you got me. I'm not. But that's not the issue I'm droppin’ down, here. It ain't the question I'm throwing out, and you know it. So, why don't you answer the question I asked, first?”

“Fine. I guess I do. It's what I've been raised to believe, at least. We all live in an endless cycle, and we'll only break out when we achieve our highest form. Blah fucking blah. So, what's the point of this?” Karkat's eyes narrow slightly. Through the desaturated haze of the dive bar, he studies Dave's features, taking in each scar and freckle. He compares them to the visions he's had in his dreams, checking off each detail. He comes to the conclusion that he's either retained an unreasonable and peculiar aptitude for remembering Dave's face, specifically, or that something more is happening. “Are you suggesting that you, of all people, are a some sort of enlightened, all-knowing reincarnation?”

“Try the opposite,” Dave answers. His voice is flat, now, and his words are delivered with a sense of formality. It's a phenomenon that's not easy to explain; it simply happens, and it tends to be that a person knows it when they hear it. There's a thin layer of something—what, exactly, Karkat can't say—that divides Dave's commentary from not just his emotions, but also the sense of comradery that Karkat is so accustomed to him exuding.

“You're saying that _I'm_ reincarnated?”

“Perhaps.”

Strained silence follows Dave's conclusion. It somehow spreads, and the volume of the entire bar falls to an abrupt murmur. The only filler that Karkat can reasonably cling to is the droning of the newscaster currently onscreen.

“We interrupt this scheduled football game to bring you breaking news,” the announcer, a slight, balding man in his mid-sixties, says. “In an unprecedented move, and due to mounting conflicts between various nations, the United States has declared a lockdown of all major cities. A list of the affected areas is available online. Statements provided by various officials suggest that—” As the newscast continues, the formally convivial atmosphere is broken by the sounds of heavy footsteps.

Uniformed officers, clad in bulletproof vests, enter the venue. They urge the patrons out, back into the streets. “There is no need to panic,” they repeat, again and again, despite the obvious and ongoing panic of the public. “Unless your job requires you to be out past dark, please return to your homes and lock your doors.”

Events happen one after the other, a blur of frenetic confusion. People object to the demand, noting that it isn't dark yet, and that it won't be dark for some time. Their reasoning is rejected, with officers citing public safety; yet, there's no word of what may be happening to cause such sudden action. As time passes—with seconds seeming to stretch into minutes—both Karkat and Dave are swept into the crowd, propelled forward by momentum, and left on the street. The doors to the bar are promptly shut, and the sign which indicates that it's open is shut off. In fact, up and down the normally bustling thoroughfare, the same thing is happening. Like falling dominoes, businesses shut down. People stream out, onto dirty, cream-colored sidewalks—heads, down; eyes, glassy; mouths, shut—and hustle away.

And, in the midst of all of this, Karkat's attentions are drawn by a voice so impossibly familiar that it calms him. “Hey, you want me to walk you back to your place? Might be better to go together.”

Karkat nods.

Like last time, he swears he sees the gears on Dave's leg move. The journey home is far swifter than it should be; what should take half an hour takes all of five minutes. His mind is muddled, as if he's woken from a long nap, yet his senses tingle, overstimulated and raw. The air presses down on him, and the wet fabric of his shirt is, quite suddenly, infuriating. It's a sensation he wants to rid himself of as quickly as possible, yet he still takes a moment to consider his companion. “Do you have somewhere to go? I mean... Uh...” He rubs the back of his neck, and his hand comes away wet and sticky with sweat.

From Dave, another soft smile. “No, thanks. I have somewhere I have to be. Stay safe, dude.” He turns and waves before disappearing around the corner.

Sitting across from Kanaya, one-on-one, has always exposed in Karkat a sense of vulnerability. It's a feeling he's come to cherish, one that's at once familiar and comforting. In their apartment, it's warm; the fans only push the heat around. Outside, unbuffered by thin walls, boots rattle by, shaking the window panes. Orders are shouted, people scramble, and chaos seeps through the air, making it even thicker than it already is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as a worldbuilding note, this universe is very similar to Real Life, but not exactly the same. the reasons for this and the exact differences will be explained later. (probably)


	8. Resistance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading! Comments and feedback are always welcome. OwO this is a muse song. I’m on mobile. Links are Fucky. If you see any typos feel free to let me know.

**DAY 033:** “Come with me,” Dave says, offering his free hand out. There’s a smile on his face, a reassuring expression that oozes with sincerity.

Karkat accepts, despite a slight sense of apprehension, and follows.

The journey doesn’t last long. In fact, it seems as if only a minute passes before they arrive at a run-down apartment building. The pair journey down narrow hallways; long stretches of blank, peeling burgundy plaster, lit only by the flickering, buzzing glow of a few fluorescent lights. The air is musky, and a smoky, decaying smell—like old newspapers, rotting and forgotten in a moldy wooden crawlspace—is all-encompassing. The sounds of fighting echo down the hall, seeming to at once come from one room and all of them. (_Perhaps it’s carried by the rattling air vents, _Karkat considers.)

After a minute that somehow seems to last several, Dave reaches a rickety stairwell. It’s narrow, sandwiched between walls of plaster, accented by panels of splintering and cracking wood. Once upon a time, this building was grand; the traces of careful craftsmanship dimly shine through years of neglect and abuse. Clearly, the golden age of these apartments has long since passed.

“You want to go up first?” Dave asks, head cocked slightly to the side. He shifts awkwardly, grimacing when his false foot slips slightly on the grimy floor. “I’ll take a bit. If you don’t mind waiting a bit...” he trails off.

Karkat shrugs. “I don’t really mind. I wouldn’t even know where the fuck I’d go. So, you lead the way.”

From Dave, a nod. He limps ahead, then allows his crutch to dangle from the loop around his forearm. He braces his hands against both walls, then hauls himself up. There’s a dull, heavy, solid thud, the sound of his false foot banging against the wooden stairs. “You... Uh... You’ve got a bit of an accent,” he points out. His words are punctuated by brief pauses between each step. “Irish?”

“My family lived there for a few years when I was younger. I guess I picked up some sort of linguistic fuckery from there, yeah.” Karkat waits until Dave has gone up a few more steps before trailing behind. “This place doesn’t have an elevator?”

“Too rich for my blood.”

“What happened to your leg, anyhow, if you don’t mind me shoving my obtuse nose into places it sure as fuck doesn’t really belong?”

A pause. Dave stops, balancing precariously on an unusually narrow step for a few seconds before answering, “Don’t mind. Guess you could say I was born with it. I mean. Hm. That’s probably...” he huffs, beginning his ascent once again. By now, only five or six steps remain. “That’s the best way to explain it. It’s complicated.”

“Oh.” A sense of regret washes over Karkat. He feels as if he’s pried too much.

Dave, however, seems to be feeling the exact opposite, as he continues to divulge information. “Most of the leg’s gone. Poof! Doesn’t fuckin’ exist in this timeline. I’ve got maybe a bit over a foot of fleshy appendage left, and my hip’s kind of screwy, so I don’t have rockin’ range of motion, either. It’s no big deal. I’m used to it.”

“Mhm.” After the final step, Dave turns. He unlocks a door and pushes it open, revealing a ramshackle little apartment.

The sparse furnishings include a single twin bed, a two-seater dining table (with one leg propped up by an old phonebook), a coffee table, and a single dresser. Through the lone window streams a beam of light, in which dance a multitude of dust specks. Each step upon Dave’s false leg releases a hollow clang.

“So... this is where you live?” Karkat asks. He almost feels bad, knowing how much relative luxury he enjoys in comparison to this.

“Most of the time,” nods Dave. “Sorry if it ain’t up to snuff, pal. You can sit on the sofa.” He sits down at the dining table for a moment. He rolls his pants leg up and pulls off his prosthetic, revealing the covered stump beneath. From behind him, he takes a second crutch, which matches the first, and expertly maneuvers himself to the sofa, upon which Karkat has already settled. When he sits, the fabric of his jeans falls such that it confirms what he’s said earlier; Most his right leg is missing. “You want a drink?” he asks, pulling a six pack of beer from mini-fridge on his side of the sofa.

“Not really. I’ll have to drive home.”

“I’ll drive you,” Dave offers. “But, if you don’t want the booze, you don’t want to booze. I’m not gonna peer pressure ya’ into it.” He shrugs. After taking a moment to settle into his spot, he takes a large sip from his bottle, only to immediately pause. “Just realized it was probably weird for me to just yank off my leg. Sorry. Habit.”

“Yeah,” Karkat admits, “That was just a fucking little beyond what I was expecting.” He frowns. His brows furrow together, and, despite his awareness of the situation and a sense of right and wrong, his eyes keep falling upon the place where a leg should be. “It... Does it hurt?”

“Not really.” A shrug. Dave rolls the silver bottlecap of his beer between his fingers. “Is it makin’ you lose your shit? If it is, I’ll put the leg back on. No skin off my toes.”

Karkat snickers. “The phrase is ‘nose’, dumbass, but you don’t need to do that.”

“Any problems with the police yet?” Dave asks, abruptly changing the topic.

Caught off-guard, Karkat stammers out the best answer he can. “Yet? No. But—”

“If you ever have problems, let me know.” Dave leans back. He rolls his shoulders and sighs when they pop. “Shit. My muscles were tenser than a rich man’s grip on his bejeweled silk coin purse. Tighter than the clenched moral anus of a hardcore conservative. You feel?”

“Not really. But nothing you ever say makes much sense, anyhow, you enigmatic bastard.” Karkat considers for a moment if it’s rude to ask Dave for something to drink. He’d just turned down alcohol, but he’s admittedly thirsty. Perhaps—?

More deliberation proves futile. “You like Coca Cola?” asks Dave. He takes a can from the fridge. The aluminum is slightly dented, but it is, indeed, a soda, as promised.

“I mean... Are you okay—?” Karkat begins.

“My financial indecisions are mine to worry ‘bout, Karkat, not you. Hell, maybe I’m a secret millionaire. If you want the soda, take the soda. If you don’t, then I’ll put it back.”

“No, thanks, I’ll take the damned thing,” Karkat hurriedly answers. “So, why, exactly did you invite me to your place. Actually, come to think about it—and I mean _really_, sincerely think about it, why are you even so interested in me? I’ve given you my half of this, poured my goddamned thoughts over you like a cascading stream of goddamned vitriol, but you haven’t given me a single thing to go off of. For al I know, you’re some sort of deranged serial killer, sizing me up as the next corpse to stuff into a luggage case on the side of the highway.”

“You’re cute. I like you.” There’s a faint flicker of a smirk on Dave’s face as he responds, shrugging. “Face of gold, heart and mouth of solid fire. You’re a persistent mold, you grow on my heart like briar.” A beat of silence follows, then, a small smile, verging on a smirk. “For real? I can’t really say. I’ve got reasons, like you’ve got yours, but mine don’t gotta be known at this point.”

Though he bristles slightly, Karkat shakes his head. “Fine. So, uh... Thanks for the soda.”

“No problem.” Dave waves his hand dismissively in the air. “Hey, I know you’ve got to be back soon, curfew and all, but you want to just stay over? I’ve got some old clothes from the last sap who lived here, and they look to be your size.” After a moment of thought, Dave adds to his offer, “I’ll call up a GrubHub order, your pick, and we can watch some Netflix or whatever.”

Karkat shrugs.

Admittedly, spending the night at Dave’s sounds like a fun distraction from the day-to-day slog of his life. It’s a diversion from an otherwise boring existence of consistently clocking in and clocking out. So, he goes with his gut. “Fuck it! Sure!”

A wide, radiant grin breaks across Dave’s often nonplussed features. He whips out his phone, busying himself with the task of seeking out the perfect dining option. “Great!”

Karkat falls asleep on dave’s sofa, surrounded by an uncanny sense of peace and safety. He dreams, and, in those dreams, he finds himself in the center of a vast landscape of white and black, a checkerboard, populated by only two people—himself, and a certain Dave Strider.

“Hold it steady, Rose, the connection’s shittier than a Nokia in an overpass.” The image of Dave shimmers, as if being viewed from underwater, and his voice seems oddly distant. “God, this was a nightmare to orchestrate. I’m the conductor of the world’s biggest symphony of idiots. So, anywho, what’s the shit down here?”

“Where am I?” inquires Karkat. “Am I dead?”

“Nah, if you were dead I’d be a bit more upset. You’re where dead people tend to go, but that’s because I pulled you in here. A lot of witchy mumbo-jumbo toil and dumbo in here, y’all. The point I’m making—the trash I’m throwin’ down—is that you’re here because you’re a wizard, Karkat.”

“First of all, fuck you. Second of all, you can’t just make a Harry Potter reference and then expect me to roll with it. So, what’s the real reason for this?”

“Okay. Fine.” From Dave, a show of one-handed surrender. He steps forward, his awkward, swing-through gait even more pronounced on the uneven, sloping hillside, and he smirks. There’s a sense that the expression should be annoying, but, instead, it comes off as almost cute and coy. “Look, shit is obviously hitting the fan in this universe. Martial law and mutually assured destruction and all of that. We can’t have that, now. I’ve worked my stupid ass off to keep you dumb mortals from tearing each other apart, and I’m not even an officially licensed Nintendo-sponsored deity! Hah!” he laughs at his own joke. “So, I’m gonna’ make you a proposition. Mano-to-Mano. Or whatever the fuck. I’ll entrust you with a little more knowledge. You think you can handle that?”

“This is one fucking train wreck of a dream.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Look, I know you don’t remember, but we used to be friends. Like, really, really good friends. We were raised together, part of an ancient society. Both of us were candidates for the ritual, but I was the one with the short stick.” Dave shifts his weight, so that he can prop both hands atop his crutch, now position in front of him. His appearance shimmers, and his shades disappear, revealing his clouded over eye. “Bloody, nasty shit, I’m tellin’ you,” He tuts.

“Am I even going to care about or remember any of this allegedly important information when I wake up?” inquires Karkat, his incredulity rising by the second. “I mean, I _do_, grudgingly, find you cute, Dave, but the absolute bullshit you’re inelegantly expelling from your gaping maw right now is absolute cockamamie horse shit, to put it gently.”

Dave snickers. “Okay, first of all, that wasn’t gentle. Second of all, I sure fuckin’ hope you do, and I sure fuckin’ hope you wake up, but that’s a risk we’re willing to take.” He sighs. “Look, I’m gonna tell you this, but you can’t be spoutin’ it off to anybody else, ‘cept for your pal, Kanaya. Because she’s already sort of in the loop. So, here’s how it all went down, right? I was toted off to the temple. They tied me to a stone slab, hacked off my leg, and clawed out my eye. Both while I was still vaguely alive, mind you, and they offered my existence to the powers that be. Sure, they’d done this so many damned times before, but, somehow, this one went perfectly. I died, went through the wormhole of hell, and popped back out an immortal guardian of the world. So, that’s my story. Violins and all.”

“And I’m supposed to believe this crap?”

“Yes.” Dave’s expression hardens. He closes his eyes and, with another shimmer, his shades reappear. In oddly serious silence, he slips his arm back into the loop of his crutch, then steps back. “Now, assumin’ this all goes as planned, it’s high time for you to be waking up. You’ll be late to work.”

At first, the world fades slowly, melting away like a watercolor painting in a rainstorm. Things blend together, colors run, and the soft whisper of wind turns to muffled whistles. The sticky air of a hot summer morning begins to creep into Karkat’s extremities, and he begins to feel sweat on his brow. Then, without warning, it stops. There’s a white flash, and the world of his dream is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder to consider popping into the [Homestuck authors Discord](https://discord.gg/UhhhXrZ)! UPDATE: If anyone wonders what the designs on Dave’s leg look like, here’s a fast sketch: [Here u go](https://godtiermeme.tumblr.com/post/190106962392)


	9. The Hell of It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look we all know i can't make a fic with a shoehorned phantom of the paradise song. have some soundtrack dissonance, babes. UwU [link here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vuikvl7zt3E). warning for ritual sacrifice in the first section and some mild gore.

**DAY 034 — 364 Days Remain:** Noctiuagus. David Noctiuagus. The name is impossibly familiar, now that he considers it. Not that Karkat is actively attempting to think at this moment. No, something far beyond the scope of what he, alone, can understand is happening; but, in the midst of this, his mind is working. Synapses fire erratically, forming images and thoughts—echoes of the distant past.

He can remember, now, a temple. Its walls are made of finely polished, shining marble. Towering Corinthian columns flank solid, flat walls, upon which are carved abstracted symbols of the passage of time. Here, artisans have etched sand dunes, symbols of the ever-shifting nature of existence; there, a depiction of an eclipse. It's magnificent, far above the caliber of the slipshod wooden huts he somehow feels accustomed to. There's a sense of awe, which grips his stomach and twists it into odd little knots.

He is led inside by a tall, overbearing man, whose face is hidden behind a silver crow mask. The hood of their red robe cloaks the facial covering in shadows, creating something that is as beautiful as it is ominous. At his side, clad in the same extravagant silk vestments and jewel-encrusted golden jewelry as himself, stands a man. He recognizes this man as both Dave Strider and a certain David Noctiuagus. The son of a disgraced gladiator, dumped at the temple steps at a young age. He can recall, somehow, that they are close friends. They're almost like siblings, how they bicker.

From behind the stone altar, its surface stained with spots of rusty brown, the eldest of the Council members takes a cup—made of the shell of a tortoise—and drinks from it. When he is finished, he covers his face with a mask and looks intently at the bottom of the vessel. Strands of his wispy white hair stick out from beneath his hood, shifting as he moves his head. “The chosen one shall be Noctiuagus,” he announces. As he walks purposefully towards the two young men, he takes a knife from his belt. The handle is made of bone, and the blade is comprised of carefully sharpened and well-maintained obsidian. “Remove your jewels. They are no longer needed.”

David, having been raised specifically for this purpose (much as Karkat has been), dutifully obeys. He sets the jewelry aside, into the designated oak box, before follow the elder. He lays down on the stone slab.

“The ritual shall commence.”

Robed figures swarm the altar, blocking Karkat's view of Dave. Then, they begin—the shouts, screams, even, which sharply contrast the steely composure he's come to expect of his friend. Blood begins to leak, seeping down the side of the altar. It slowly flows down channels in the floor, eventually filling a wide circle, carved into the marble. Slowly, at first, then, quite abruptly, the noises end. The Council members disperse, silent and upright. Dave lays on the altar, clearly dead, with a bloodied white sheet draped over all but his face. The sheet sags where his right leg should be, and a hastily constructed patch of scrap leather has been secured over his right eye.

“That was more troublesome than I anticipated,” Karkat hears the elder speaking in the nearby Council chamber. “See to it that he is cleaned up prior to entombment. We needn't let everyone know that he put up such a futile fight. I would have thought he would perform better; Noctiuagus was our most promising pupil. Alas, not everything follows the plans we may lay out.” The sound of footsteps muffle the next bit of commentary, only for Karkat to hear the tail end of the discussion. “Tell Vantas that his duty to the Council has concluded. He may now either go free or join us.”

The choice has already been made; Karkat senses that. Nonetheless, of his own free will, with what he can piece together, his current self also happily rejects the offer of joining the enigmatic assembly of robed men.

“You know, Dave, we wouldn't have this problem if you hadn't so stubbornly insisted upon meddling in mortal affairs, we wouldn't be doing this right now,” Rose said, sounding quite smug. “And, of course, I am fully aware that this isn't what you want to hear at this precise moment, but it must be said. Nevertheless, it seems you've delved too deeply into this, now, and we've reached the event horizon. We must follow through or—”

“Fuck. Rose, you know I love you, but fuckin’ shut _up _right now,” Dave huffs. His left hand is pressed against Karkat's chest, and a faint red glow surrounds it. “I'm keeping his heart steady, but fuck knows how long I can keep turning back this bullshit clock for the bastard. Can we just take him to the hospital?”

“Not if you've done what it superficially appears you have.” Rose places her hands on her hips and furrows her brows. “You must let his mind catch up with the information you've given him, Dave. The mortal mind simply isn't malleable, I'm sure you can understand that. He's been provided information far beyond the scope of what he can even imagine, given the experiences he's lived in this life. What you remember, the person you so often and fondly speak of, is just one of perhaps thousands of iterations of this particular man's consciousness. You're doing perfectly well as you are, continue doing this and he should come around.”

“Fuck,” Dave growls. He wipes sweat from his bow. “Will this even work?”

“It might,” Rose hums. “There are certainly realities where this attempt to salvage what is left of this race's limited existence on this planet is a success, but there are equally ample scenarios where it fails. Which reality we end up in is entirely up to the whims of Karkat, not you. You may guide him to the correct outcome, but, for once, you must acknowledge that you're not in complete control. Relax, breathe, and wait.” As if to emphasize her point, Rose wanders to a the nearby dining table chair. She sits, crossing her legs as she does so, before taking her phone from her pocket. “There is nothing to do, now, but wait it out.”

* * *

**DAY 035 — 363 Days Remain:** For a reason beyond the comprehension of his addled brain, Karkat wakes with a single word on his tongue, “Noctiuagus.” Moreover, he wakes with the warm hand of a slumbering Dave Strider pressed against his chest, and the sensation of a thoroughly empty stomach gnawing at his innards. “What the fuck just happened?” Karkat mumbles. “Dave?”

The man stirs. He groans. “Complicated shit. Look, you kind of blacked out for 'bout a day. Don't worry too much. I called Kanaya, she called where you work. And... uh... You're feeling okay?”

“Noctiuagus,” Karkat repeats, unconsciously.

The word draws Dave's attentions. His brows rise, and his shoulders tense. “Ah. So, you remember that much? That's a start.” There's a soft pop as he stretches his arms above his head. A loud yawn escapes him. “Strange to hear that name again. Haven't been called that in centuries.” A low whistle punctuates this commentary. “So, what did you see? Do you remember anything new?”

“I'd hesitate to call it ‘recalling’, and much fucking less ‘remembering’,” Karkat emphasizes his words with air quotes, “But I feel like I know why I remember you. I'm not sure how, in the name of goddamned near anything on this blighted planet, I'd even _begin_ to explain it, but—”

“—You know?” Dave interjects, smirking. “Well, that's a start.” At this point, he takes a can of soda from the nearby mini fridge. He hands it over, watching as Karkat eagerly drinks, before folding his arms in front of his chest. He leans back, so that he's resting against the coffee table. “Good. We can work with that. Now, I know you've just gone and woke the fuck up, but I've gotta level with you, here. The world's goin’ to shit. I see it. I know you sure as fuck see it. So, let's say we do somethin’ ‘bout it, huh?”

Karkat's eyes narrow. He shakes his head, his mind awash with a million thoughts, none of which make much sense. “Okay. Sure, you piss-for-brains, cerebral-less idiot. And how do you suggest we do that?”

“Ah. Fuck. You don't remember _that_ much. Guess we have to go back to the drawing board.” A low sigh escapes Dave, and his hand rubs his stubble-covered chin. “Well, then, let's just say that you're not exactly who you think you are. I mean... You _are_, but you're also more powerful than you believe. And there're a few reasons for that, but the one we're really zoomin’ in on—dramatic soap opera style pannin’ and motion blurring included, ‘course—doesn't seem to be quite within your grasp, now. So, let's ignore it. Let's just talk about something else.”

“For fuck's sake, _please_,” Karkat groans. “My head feels like someone's submerging it into the hottest, most pungent chili pepper slop. I can't handle you and your enigmatic bullshit right now. Do you have an ice pack?”

As prompted, Dave pulls a cold, stiff packet from his mini fridge. He hands it over, smiling reassuringly, as he says, “Don't worry about it. Just relax. Kanaya's handled your job shit for you. You've got the rest of the week off. And, whenever you're ready, I'll drive you back home.”

“You can drive? And you have a car? That's a disquieting thought, and I was just starting to feel safe on the chaotic roads of idiotic Skaia City drivers.”

From Dave, a soft laugh. “Yup and yup. You want me to put on a movie? Something stupid and mindless?”

“Sounds great.”


End file.
